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User blog:High Prince Imrahil/The Day the Plains Stood Still: The Battle of Lithlad
Headquarters January 20 Your Majesty: I have delayed in replying to your recent letter until such a time as the attempt on Kharad Fortress was prepared. I am proud to say that the necessary boats have been procured. I humbly request that Col. Jason's forces reinforce Gen. James Longsword's corps. With their aid, the success of my mission should be certain. Without them I fear the results are uncertain. There is still a struggle to keep the army fed and clothed. I realize that resources are short, however I dearly hope that some salted meats can be spared from Gen. Bell's forces. If these requests were realized, it would greatly contribute to the morale and effectiveness of my army. - General Robert E. Laeglin paused to dip his pen in the inkwell. Despite his heavy officer's coat, he couldn't help but shiver a little as a cold wind tore through the tent. The Lithlad Plains were as far north as Minas Tirith, but he still couldn't imagine why such a terrible winter was being visited upon them. He blew a warm breath on his hands, rubbing them together for a moment before picking up the pen once more. With a small sigh he continued his letter to King Araval, detailing plans for General Longsword's assault on Kharad Fortress. In truth, Laeglin had very little hope for success. His army was outnumbered, undersupplied, and starving. But still, the King had ordered the assault, and it was General Laeglin's duty to carry it out as best he could. Perhaps even without the reinforcements, he could still take the fortress; he had faced far worse odds before and won out. He shook his head. Keeping the Army of Eastern Gondor supplied was a never-ending struggle. Resources trickled in along the railroads from Minas Ithil and Morannon, but not nearly so often as he liked. He would have to cut the rations again if more did not arrive soon. King Araval, however, was as aware of it as Laeglin could possibly make him. The King had a distinct dislike for him that Laeglin simply couldn't place, and unfortunately that meant the best of food and supplies were always shipped elsewhere. But supplies or no supplies, Laeglin's place was not to question the Lord-King of Gondor, simply to follow orders as best he could. His duty was to his King and his Country, and he would die before he betrayed either. He resumed: Gen. Powell's troops are still operating in the east, in the general vicinity of-'' The sound of footsteps was heard outside the tent. With a sigh, Laeglin set down his pen, and rested his reading glasses on the desk. Putting on his hat, he went outside to see what was going on. At the tent flap, he almost collided with one of his aides-de-camp, who was coming in as Laeglin was trying to leave. The younger man snapped to attention. "Begging your pardon, sir." "Quite all right, Major Jeffory." replied Laeglin. "I heard a commotion towards the north end of the camp. What's going on?" "I was just coming in to tell you, sir." The young major replied, "General Trever is back from the eastern wilderness. His forces just arrived on the main road." "Thank you." replied Laeglin. Well, the letter could wait. Mounting his white horse, he set off towards the eastern end of the camp. Soldiers wererunning to and fro across the road, stopping suddenly to salute their Commander as he rode by. For such a late hour, the camp seemed to suddenly surgeto life at news of Trever's arrival. General Trever Sarnedram's corps had been detached for the last three days, as he flanked far behind enemy lines to destroy a weapons factory. Now he had come within view, riding down the road into camp, his veteran Sarnedram Brigade marching close behind. Trever was a tall man, with thick brown beard, and deep grey eyes like those of General Bell. Although he was one of the greatest heroes in Gondorian history, his uniform and battered cap were just as nondescript and dirty as the lowliest private's. Stopping his horse along the road, he gave Laeglin a tired salute. "We're back, sir." "I noticed that, General." replied Laeglin with a wry smile. "The important part is what happened while you were gone." Side-by-side, Laeglin and Trever slowly rode towards the tents, while the latter gave a report about the previous day's battle. After a lengthy conversation, they bid one another good-night. Dismounting, Laeglin returned to his own tent, and prepared to go to sleep at last. He collapsed in his cot, pulling the blankets over him. His mind flashed to the battle plans still lying on his desk. But his mind did not see the names of regiments, or the symbols that represented hills and roads. His mind saw marching men and flashing guns and patterns of collision... - - '''High Prince Imrahil and Great War Lore presents:' Robert E. Laeglin and the Battle of Lithlad - - He was awoken early that morning by both the sun streaming onto his tent, and the sounds of horses outside. For a moment, dread shot through his veins, fearing a raid. But he realized that the sounds were not accompanied by gunfire, so the cavalry must be friendly. That meant it must be- "General Laeglin, sir!" General REB the Stalwart burst into the tent, being much too loud, and allowing in too much sunlight. Laeglin shielded his eyes with his hands. "Your cavalry division has been gone for three days, Stalwart. We would have thought you dead if you didn't make such a habit of it. Where in Ulmo's name were you?" "Ah, but that would ruin the surprise sir." Reb said, with the smile of a cat who had caught his canary. "If you'll step outside for a moment, you'll see my absence was more then worth it." Laeglin sighed. He was getting too old for this. Casting off the blankets, he sat up in his cot. Putting on his hat, he stepped outside with his young cavalry commander. The sun glared down on them, the brightness doubled by the white snow that reflected it. Laeglin had to let his eyes adjust for a moment before he could see the battered covered wagon in front of him. It was painted red and black, like the Umbarian supply wagons. Reb motioned to two of his soldiers, who took a crate from the wagon and layed it at Laeglin's feet. "We've been doing a damn sight more then just scoutin', sir." said Reb, with that cocky smirk of his. Rorondir Eldacar Baranor (REB) "the Stalwart" was a tall young man, with fiery red hair and a beard to match. He was as fine a horseman as a general could ask for, but his looks and accent would perhaps be more suited to a dwarf then to a mannish cavalry corps commander. He was a dashing knight somehow thrown into the modern era, admired by every young girl from Gorgoroth to Forochel. He was a flashy dresser. He always wore high, polished jackboots, a silk sash knotted around his long uniform coat, and even a massive blue plume in his hat, like the Swan Knight helms of old. After his gallant performance in the Battle of Poros, he became known as the Last Swan Knight, a title that seemed somewhat fitting of the dashing cavalier. Presently, he pried off the lid to the crate, revealing an entire case of shiny new Gwanur '63 model rifles. "By Ulmo!" exclaimed Laeglin, "where Valinor did you get those?" "Ah!" exclaimed Reb, growing even more smug, "not in Valinor sir, but a Southron supply convoy we managed to capture. They gave us one hell of a battle, and they tried to fight their way back south to Bandor Straights. But not before we stole one of their wagons. "Several hundred of Umbar's newest rifles, enough to arm at least a regiment or two. Imagine the damage the 3rd Edhellon could do with weapons like these..." Laeglin plucked his grey beard thoughtfully. "And that's not all, sir." continued Reb brightly, "we sacked their camp, and their commander left behind his personal weapons. Repeaters, sir, better then I've ever seen in my life." Reb looked up expectantly, like a child asking his father for a new toy. "What do you say, sir, can I keep them?" Laeglin sighed. "It appears I have no other recourse but to reward you for disobeying my orders. Who else would I give them to? Keep them for yourself, General Stalwart, I contrive that it is with you that those weapons shall cause maximum damage to the enemy." Reb beamed. "Though," continued Laeglin with a wry smile, "don't you think that leather would better have gone into shoes for the men?" Ever flamboyant, Stalwart wore crossed leather belts over his shoulders, with loops holding an Umbarian repeater in each one. He looked like some kind of buccaneer, the kind that terrorized Numenorean treasure galleons back in the Second Age. But Reb immediately became a repentant swashbuckler, saying, "I'm sorry, General Laeglin; it never crossed my mind." Laeglin waved him off. "No worries, Stalwart. I doubt the Gondorian Empire will flounder for want of a yard of cowhide. But I am to infer from your piratical fashion that you are pleased with your new weapons?" "Sir, I'm never going back to the old fashioned pistols again. These repeaters must have been forged by Aule himself. I have never seen or heard of a better weapon in all my life." Laeglin smiled, glad to see one of his officers so happy despite the declining fortunes of the war. He had always liked Reb, ever since they had first met at the Battle of Poros. - --- Years previous --- - Artillery thundered, the crackling of muskets and pistols like an endless tattoo of war drums. General Robert E. Laeglin had been promoted to the army's commander mid-battle after his superior was slain near the river crossing. He was standing outside his tent, visibly watching the battle come closer and closer. He frowned, folding his spyglass, and tucking it inside his coat. He had respected his late commander greatly, but this battle was doomed from the start, fought on impossible ground. If the Southrons managed to haul their artillery batteries onto Breckinrack Ridge... the results would be catastrophic. Suddenly, whupping and yelling like some kind of Far Haradric berserker, a lone rider came careening through the camp. A red-haired stranger who looked like he was dressed for a fox hunt rather then a battle. "Those thrice-damned Southrons have us surrounded." He yelled to Laeglin as he rode up, "They took Bergil's Ridge and Lone Hill, and they're rolling up our flank. It's a mass rout!" "And who might you be?" asked Laeglin politely. "Major Rorondir Eldacar Baranor of the house of Stalwart, 3rd Pelagir Cavaliers. My friends call me REB the Stalwart. I assume you're General Laeglin?" "I suppose I am." "Well, sir, if you want any semblance of an army to escape north, I highly suggest you reinforce the right flank!" "There are no regiments to spare." sighed Laeglin. "Though I admit I'm not certain of its security either. General Bell is commanding that division. Have you ever played poker with him?" "No, sir, I can't say I have." "Well, you see, he's a very able player- until the stakes get to be above fifty talons. Then, as the saying goes, he flunks." Suddenly, there was a burst of fire from the right. "Sir!" shouted General Powell, running up to the tent. "It's General Bell! He won't talk or move or anything! He just keeps staring straight ahead, like he's shell-shocked or something." Another burst of fire erupted from the right, as shattered remnants of Bell's Brownlands Brigade began rushing into the camp, presumably the Umbarians not far behind. "Sir," said Reb curtly, "I think we can presume that General Bell has flunked." The tell-tale whistle of a falling shell filled the air. A tent, not twenty yards away, suddenly exploded, throwing men and burning shrapnel in all directions. "Damn them to hell!" shouted Powell, "they must have hauled their artillery onto Breckinrack Ridge at our rear! If we try to hold our position, we'll be blown up like sheep in a pen!" Laeglin sighed, plucking his beard. "We have no hope to salvage anything from this defeat. We have to retreat North. Perhaps we can establish a line of battle midway through Harandor." "Do as you will, sir." said Reb, saluting. "But I'm going to go bring the fight to the enemy, before they bring it to me." With another warcry, Reb galloped headlong down the hill, a saber in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Laeglin prayed mercy on whatever poor Southron should get in that cavalryman's way. - --- Present --- - "Well," continued Laeglin, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed. But if you recall, General Stalwart, the reason I sent you out was to scout the enemy position. In all your gallivanting, did you manage to achieve that end?" Reb looked sheepish, like a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Well, I admit that our reconnaissance was a bit, er, fuzzy. But we managed to find the general positions of the enemy, and their positioning on the ridge. We also had a skirmish with enemy cavalry near our rearguard along Galvorn Creek. If we hadn't stopped them, who knows what sort of mischief they would have gotten into before we beat them back?" "The scouts report." insisted Laeglin. "You are the eyes and ears of my army, Stalwart, I need to know what's happening out there." "Yes, sir." replied Reb meekly. He nodded to one of his aids, who handed Laeglin a small map. "As I said before, we should have the general position of their camps, and where their best regiments are." Laeglin nodded, and took the paper, looking at the map with great interest. "Fine work, Stalwart. If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave to study this in my tent." "As you say, sir." replied Reb, saluting. The Stalwart and his rambunctious cavalryman continued back towards the center of camp, singing and shouting as they marched. Laeglin couldn't help but shake his head with a small smile, allowing himself to roll his eyes at the cavalrymen's antics. --------- It was late in the evening of the following day that Laeglin summoned all his generals for a war council. Generals Trever, Reb, Longsword, Powell and Bell were all present. Every single notable general from the Trans-Anduin Department, (with the exception of Hallas Hallarambos IV who was commanding forces in Harandor) all gathered in one place. They sat together in Laeglin's tent, the flickering candlelight illuminating a massive battle-map on an old wooden table. "As you can see," began Laeglin, "the Umbarians are stretched out along James Hill and Yoko Ridge. Now, notice how the flanks are heavily forested?" "I'm don't think I like the direction of this conversation..." said Powell wryly. "I intend to assault the enemy. They'll never be expecting it." "Perhaps because they aren't insane!" exclaimed Powell, "sir, with all due respect, we're outnumbered almost two-to-one!" "We are too weak to defend, and so we shall attack. I've been studying the War of the Ring lately, notably the tactics of Veantur Eldrion. He perfected a method called 'lightning warfare' in which one would assault the enemy as quickly as possible, throwing them off balance, and giving them no time to recover. While he meant the tactic for campaigns, I think that, on a smaller scale, it should prove most effective in a battle. "The plan is thus: Longsword and Powell's corps will assault their center, while Trever will attack from the northwest near Johnson's Farm, and fight in a diagonal line southeast. Bell's forces, under the cover of the forest, will hopefully go unnoticed, until they suddenly appear on the enemy's far flank. Meanwhile, Reb Stalwart and his cavalry corps will loop around behind Trever's assault and attempt to plunge the death blow into their rearguard. "Remember, the Umbarians are greatly lacking in scouting ability at this point. They have no idea how many men we have, or how we're armed, or what condition we're in. If we immediately go on the offensive, they'll assume they're outnumbered, and we have a chance to force a rout. The Umbarian army's line of retreat is into a dead-end formed by the Lake of Nurnen and Persephone River. There we can defeat them in detail." Not for the first time that evening, General Bell took a swig from his ever-present flask, and shrugged. "I personally don't see the wisdom in assuming offensive opporations while our force stands at such a disadvantage. But we will do whatever you think best, General Laeglin." Longsword nodded in agreement. "I, for one, would love an extra chance to run those Southrons out of Nurnen." Smirked Trever, "my soldiers had a hard fight last week, but they're always ready to lick the enemy." Reb grinned, and twirled his repeater in his hand. "I reckon General Trever sort of echoed my general convictions on the matter, sir. Let's charge the buggers." General Powell threw his hands in the air in surrender. "I suppose if all my compatriots are in favor of it, I might as well give in. But mark my words: this will end in disaster." "Your complaint has been noted." replied Laeglin with a wry grin. "Now let's get the troops ready - we ride at dawn!" - ---------------- - The morning sunlight glimmered through the trees, shimmering through the leaves, and bathing all the woods in a golden light. Almost magical it seemed, like the elven forests of old legend. General Bell took in the sight with a mixture of awe and rare joy. It wasn't often in such a war that the landscape proved so beautiful. "Sir! Scouts report the enemy still haven't sighted us. We should be upon their flank in less then half of an hour!" Bell was startled out of his thoughts. He was suddenly aware of the endless ranks of grey that marched behind him, of the sounds of horses and officers calling orders. In an instant he was brought back from his fantasy of an elven forest, and into war-torn reality. "Excellent," he said slowly, "good work, General Bedford." Brigadier General Nathaniel Bedford "of the Forest" was the leader of Bell's cavalry detachment. Nathaniel smiled - a cold, fierce smile. "Thank you sir. I reckon we ought to have those filthy Southrons run off by the end of the day." he said, with a strong Northeastern twang. Unlike most generals, Nathaniel didn't have a drop of noble blood in his veins. Before enlisting he had been a woodsman in the North Lorien, a commoner. He worked his way up through the ranks for one reason, and one reason only: he was incredibly good at what he did. "With your help, General," replied Bell, "I intend to do just that." Ned's eyes gleamed with a deadly light. "Those Umbarians think we're licked, do they? Think that they can just walk into Gorgoroth? Well, they'd better think again." "That's right, Bedford, that's exactly right. Now get ahead with your riders, and see if you can get further down the east, towards their rearguard. Maybe you can help Stalwart's cavalry." "Alright, sir." Nathaniel gave him a sloppy salute and spurred his horse in that direction. Bell wasn't sorry to see him go; as much as he valued Bedford, the man seemed too... brutal. Unerving. Bell felt a sharp pain, where his leg had been lost after the Battle of Poros. The leg might be gone, but the feeling still lingered, and brought him constant torment. Working awkwardly with his good hand, Bell opened up the leather pouch in his saddle bag, and pulled out a small bottle. Yanking the cork with his teeth, then tilting his head back, he took a long pull. It felt like fire poured down his throat. The drink was a mixture of brandy and poppy juice, the type that deadened pain nothing else could. Though sometimes even the drug couldn't completely quell the intensity of agony that Bell knew. The other problem was that he had been taking the stuff for years, and he needed much bigger doses to deaden the pain then he had at first. By now, the amount he took every day would have been enough to kill two or three men who hadn't become used to the drug, or to cause ten or twelve of such men to become unconscious. Putting the bottle away, Bell waited. He remembered the strange sensation he got from the drug when he first started taking it; almost like floating on a cloud, like drifting far away from his suffering body. But nowadays he no longer felt such things. The drug had become as much a part of his life as ale was to farmers and soldiers. Slowly but surely, the pain receded in his bad arm and missing leg, and he let out a slow sigh of relief. The drug didn't even fuzz his wits anymore, he was quite sure of that. He was just as sure that he would die without it. The few times the healers didn't have enough of the drug - the poppy was often expensive and grown in the far south- he'd suffered not only from his terrible wounds, but from the even more terrible effects of giving it up. Bell flinched. He didn't like to think about those times. As long as he had the drug, he was still... at least a shadow of his old fighting self. So what if he couldn't load a pistol? So what if the stump of his leg was too short to let him ride a horse properly? He was still a general, and a damn fine general at that. And he could prove that to General Laeglin, and any other who doubted his leadership. Could - and intended to. --------- Major General James Longsword slowly folded his field glasses and put them back into the small satchel that was attached to his belt - a very large belt at that. But despite his girth, he proved to be a very gifted commander. He had done more then any general under Laeglin, besides Trever of course, to keep the enemy at bay. "Top o' the mornin' to you, sir." James turned to see Brigadier General Imin Maglor, one of his finest subordinates. The young officer's voice held the lilt of the faraway Wood-elves, from whom he had descended. "How do the enemy positions look?" "Good." replied Longsword, "too good. We may as well be assaulting a fortress. The element of surprise will give us a little ground, but I just don't think we can take that ridge." "Then sir, if I may ask, why are we assaulting it in the first place?" "Because that is what General Laeglin told me to do." Both frowned for a moment. King Araval the Braggart was tolerated in Gondor. General Laeglin was admired, loved, practically worshiped. Had he wanted the crown, he could have had it. He'd never shown the least interest. Even Araval, who mistrusted his own shadow, had faith in Laeglin. And General James Longsword trusted Laeglin as well, but he felt an inkling that something wasn't right. Laeglin wasn't always right- Usually, no doubt of that, but not always. "Well, I think we ought to go through with it." said James at last. "We have no other recourse. On that ridge the enemy waits, and it is there that we shall attack him." "As you say, sir." said Maglor. "We just need to hope General Bell doesn't deviate from the plan and attack before the signal." muttered Longsword. "I can't believe King Araval installed him as a corps commander! The Valar help our kingdom - though if they were paying any attention, they wouldn't let that idiot Araval Braggart put that idiot Bell in control of a whole damn corps." "Sir?" questioned Brigadier Maglor cautiously, "didn't he serve under you with distinction in all your campaigns?" "Don't misunderstand me, General, he's a first-rate brigade commander. He's like an attack dog - he's best when someone with an actual brain points him at the enemy and turns him loose. But logistics, and coordination and maneuvers? He hasn't got a clue, and we haven't got a prayer." Maglor merely nodded quietly. "Well, I suppose that's enough ranting for now, General Maglor. Line up your regiment along Pond's Hill, and wait for my signal." "Aye, sir." ---------------- "Well, everything looks to be going surprisingly well." commented General Powell, looking carefully at the towering ridge ahead. "Perhaps I was mistaken in my criticism of your plan, sir." General Robert Laeglin shook his head slowly. "It is always your duty to speak your mind, General Powell, even against myself. What kind of general would I be to silence the advice of my wing commander?" "As you say, sir. Though I hope General Bell won't cause us any misfortune with his intelligence, or lack thereof. How that idiot got in command of a corps, I haven't the slightest idea." Laeglin frowned. "It was a personal order of King Araval." "The Braggart be damned" replied Powell, scowling, "he's not fit to run a fishing village, much less an Empire!" Laeglin was silent. From anyone else, such criticism of Araval would have been shockingly treasonous. From General Powell, it was expected. "Tell me, sir," continued the Wing commander, "is it really true that King Araval once picked a quarrel with himself?" "Ah," said Laeglin haltingly, "I believe that, as lord of the Hall of Lore, he refused to issue to himself something to which, as head loremaster, he believed he was entitled." So it was true. Powell's scowl deepened. "Well I wish he had found someone, anyone else to command a corps. Bell... is not a lucky man." "He is the man we have." cut in Laeglin, his voice firm. "As I told you, the King's word is law, and as a soldier of this Empire, it is your personal duty to carry that law out as best you can. You can do no more then your duty, General Powell, and you should never wish to do less." "Yes, sir." replied Powell, though he seemed less then convinced. ----------- Trever of the Stone Wall stood proudly on his horse. Despite his tattered uniform, and his battered old war horse that was older then its years, he looked more valiant then all the generals of Gondor combined. Beside him rode REB the Stalwart, the self-acclaimed greatest horseman in all Middle-Earth, his dashing clothes more like a hussar then a cavalier. The older general looked to the younger, putting a hand on his shoulder like a proud father. "You've done well, Reb. With General Bedford holding the southeastern corner, they'll be pinned like sheep in a pen." "Thanks, sir." replied the Stalwart with a boyish grin, "my soldiers are stretched clear 'cross the river's ford. When those Southrons go runnin' back to the northeast, they'll be defeated in detail." "Excellent. I think you'd best get into position with them, before the battle commences." "Alright. Best of luck to you, sir." "And you as well, Stalwart." Reb galloped into the forest, until he completely disappeared into the trees. Trever said a silent prayer for his safety, before attending to his own troops. Reb was like a son to him, and he didn't know what he would do without the intrepid cavalry commander. "Sir, there's gunfire coming from the west!" shouted a young aide, running up the hill, "I think General Longsword has started his assault!" "Well, that's our signal." replied Trever, straightening his battered grey cap. "Onwards, boys - the battle has begun!" Category:Blog posts